I wrote it April last year, don't ask me why. It hardly makes any sense. I had saved it in a folder called "Scribling" under "Scraps and drafts", which was fairly accurate to say the least.
"She had neglected the caramel coloured curls, she had dust in her eyebrows and tealeaves between her teeth. Yet she astounded him so much, and he couldn’t help but notice that she read everything like a book. She squinted as well, a pair of glasses was left on her desk, nobody had ever seen her wear them, though according to the thickness of the glass, she probably needed them direly. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he asked her why the chandelier was so dusty. She said that to clean it properly, one had to take all the pieces apart and dust them separately. He knew this, but he looked interested. She told him to go read about aquariums, there was a particularly good book on guppies that he might be interested in. He didn’t like fish. He didn’t even eat fish. But for the rest of the evening, he sat absorbed in the book. Because she was as always right when it came to books, it was a good book."
Interestingly, I wrote the next piece in April this year, and I must say it was extremely disturbing to read. Reader's discretion is advised, contains very strong mental images.
"Breeze from the rushing river whipped up whisks of morning fog, licking the trunks of the massive trees with gentle kisses of moisture. Sunrise tainted the green moss that covered most of the forest surrounding the riverbed -- the sun made everything glow like gold, even through the thick mist. A cool breeze rushed briskly between the treetops, making the leaves whisper gently high above the damp ground. A bird screeched suddenly, without purpose, sending a group of smaller ones fluttering frightened to a different branch. It was a hushed morning in the forest, only the sounds of nature’s activity could be heard dimly, overshadowed by the roar of the waterfalls.
They were the prisoners of the trees, their bodies wrought unnaturally into the bark, branches erupting through their skin, sending gushes of hot blood surging thickly over crooked roots in the dark below. Many of them were long since dead, but their flesh remained tortured as the forest tightened its brutal hold on them, crushing bones – squeezing marrow out between the leaves and pathways of ants collecting breakfast. None of them were murderers, or criminals in any sense – they were victims of the laws that the forest practised without the humans consent. Most of them had just wandered into the forest aimlessly, just taking a stroll for the sake of clearing their mind. Now they usually found their wrists speared through by a spruce, or birds nesting in their ears. The bodies that were still warm attracted all kinds of attention. Mostly because of the rusty scent of blood that surged through the nostrils of the local carnivores, and the heat that their hearts still radiated. But obviously it was hard to avoid on hearing on such a peaceful morning –the piercing screams of a young man getting ripped in half by a birch. Exactly 372 bodies hung shapeless above the ground, half devoured by trees and beasts, suffering prisoners, every visible or recognisable face contorted in unnaturally convincing animations of pain. "
Picture I took in Lisbon.